


Wolf Bits

by Jade_Masquerade



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-25 14:53:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16662927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Masquerade/pseuds/Jade_Masquerade
Summary: A collection of Jonsa drabbles





	1. Day 1: Relief

“I don’t mean to presume,” Sansa said airily, watching Brienne out of the corner of her eye where she stood guarding the door, “but have you seen the way that wildling Tormund looks upon you?”

Brienne stayed silent as Sansa ran the brush through her hair. 

“He has quite the beard,” Sansa commented. “Strong, too. And fierce. And they say he’s lucky like me—kissed by fire.” 

“They do say that,” Brienne replied. 

“Or do you prefer Ser Jaime?” Sansa smirked, lowering her voice knowing either or both the men likely waited beyond the door, standing watch. It had not been since she’d lived within these very walls that she had permitted herself the opportunity to engage in such gossip, nor had she had a true confidant since Jeyne Poole had sat beside her in their sewing circles. 

Her most loyal companion never allowed her emotions to betray her, but still Sansa could tell her lady knight had flushed the slightest bit. 

“I don’t have a preference, my lady.” 

“If it is honor holding you back… death is never far,” Sansa said. 

It was what she’d told Jon the first night he’d lain with her, who knew these things all too well himself but had needed the reminder nonetheless. 

“I don’t mean to presume either,” Brienne said, her voice measured, “but I’ve seen you as well.” 

Sansa felt her own cheeks flame now as she pretended to be distracted by a particularly stubborn knot. She wondered what Brienne had seen—her holding his hand as she stepped down the snow-covered stairs in the morning, secret smiles and soft whispers, the looks they shared at dinner before they returned to their chambers for the night. She didn’t need to ask whom she had seen with her. 

It was Jon. Only Jon. Always Jon. 

It started innocently enough. Jon had told her to let him know what she needed to be comfortable at Castle Black, and sleeping beside he and Ghost, talking of their family, taking their meals together, had eased her mind that had become accustomed to worry and fear. It had been a relief, to have a safe haven, to have someone she could trust, to know someone _cared_. And she had continued to indulge in such relief, along with other decidedly more intimate kinds Jon had introduced her to, behind closed doors ever since their return to Winterfell.

But that made her feel greedy, when there was so much else to accomplish, mouths to feed, wars to wage, and she spent more nights than not seeking satisfaction with her legs wrapped around Jon’s waist, or his tongue lapping at her cunt. 

“These are dark times indeed, and I believe what happiness can be found is well-deserved,” Brienne said, seeming to read her mind, and to recognize where it had strayed. 

A familiar knock rapped at the door, and Jon entered. “May I speak to you, my lady? Alone?” 

“Thank you, Brienne,” Sansa said, replacing her brush on the table and ignoring Brienne’s own smirk as she made to leave. “I shall heed your sound counsel.”


	2. Day 2: Touch

Jon did his best to stand still as Sansa did her work, holding the measuring stick here and there as she flitted around him, her “hmms” and “tsks” punctuated only as she paused to record lengths and widths. 

He could not deny that he enjoyed being the object of her attention, even if he had protested when she offered to craft a new outfit for him to wear south to treat with the Dragon Queen. He had eventually relented when she pointed out that she was familiar with the styles of King’s Landing, what would be most comfortable in the warmer climate there, and what would help him look best as he plead his case in Daenerys’s court. 

He knew he should not have given in as easily, though, to Sansa’s request to remove his cloak so she could ascertain the distance between his shoulders, or his jerkin so she could estimate the width across his chest, and certainly not his tunic to allow her to measure around his waist. He tried to think of the stack of unanswered letters sitting in his solar, the ledgers needing review, the ravens cawing outside the window, _anything_ besides the way her fingers touched his bare skin, skimming, stroking, stirring him as she worked. 

And now, as she knelt to measure the length of his hip to the floor, he knew he was in trouble. He thought to distract her—to tell her to look out the window, ask if she’d heard a knock on the door, bring up council business—but his voice failed, and Sansa bent back to her task.

“Oh!” 

He squeezed his eyes shut and turned around to face the stone wall instead, only for the façade to remind him of his own indiscretion. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s all right,” she said, placing a hand on his arm that was arousing rather than comforting as she certainly intended. “Do you think I have no understanding of men? Sometimes it cannot be helped.” 

“That isn’t an excuse for… this,” he said, nodding toward the yard outside and refusing to acknowledge the utter betrayal of his body. 

“Do you think the same does not happen to women?” she said, trying to calm him but instead inflaming him further. 

“At least it’s not… visible,” he said. 

“Perhaps from what you can see,” she said, blushing, and making him imagine the same flush creeping up her chest, her breasts heavy in his hands and tipped with dusky pink, wetness pooling between her legs. 

He stifled a groan, casting his eyes to the floor in shame. 

When he glanced up, though, Sansa licked her lips, and then they were against his. Soon he no longer had to imagine any more.


	3. Day 3: Snowflakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This drabble takes place somewhere down the line in the universe of [Ever After](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15879795/chapters/37001115), but it can be read independently as well!

Sansa rested her hands on the banister as she watched Arya play with her daughter and the litter of puppies in the courtyard below. Baby Arya had been too young to play outside the last time it had snowed like this, and she delighted in crawling through piles and touching the coldness to her tongue. 

Sansa delighted in watching the two of them and the picturesque scene that formed as the snowflakes began to gather and coat the bare tree branches, cover the frozen stretches of mud, and stick to the stones. The snow was beautiful, even if she’d had her fill of winter for a lifetime. 

“Isn’t it a bit cold to be out here?” Jon glanced with concern from her to their daughter below. 

Sansa smiled. “She’ll survive. She’s of the North.” 

“And you?” He placed a hand on her belly, where the slightest curve had begun to form. 

“I was too warm by the fire,” Sansa said, thinking none-too-wistfully of her abandoned sewing when Jon looked at her with his dark grey eyes, the heat in them plenty to warm her against the cold. 

“And what about now?” He pulled her close, and she thought of how she never tired of being held by him. 

Jon caught her lips in a kiss, and she enjoyed the soft way his pressed against hers before he deepened it, and Sansa found herself quickly drowning in his warmth and the strength of his arms around her, until—

Something frozen burst against her cheek. 

Sansa squealed. Jon caged her against his chest to protect her from the onslaught, and she laid there, trapped, as he bent over the ramparts to shout at their sister, and took the next snowball in the face. 

Sansa could hear her daughter’s peals of laughter as Jon finally released her to wipe the snow from his eyes and shake it out of his hair. 

“OI!” Arya’s voice broke the silent calm of the snowfall. “Don’t you think one sibling for my darling niece is _enough_?”

Jon looked stricken with embarrassment, his cheeks reddened now by more than merely their contact with the ice, but Sansa laughed and pulled him in the direction of their chambers.


	4. Day 4: Dragon and Truth

Eddard Stark awaited the day he saw the mark of the Targaryens in his nephew. 

He waited for the babe’s grey eyes to darken to purple, for his hair to lighten to silver-gold. But Jon’s hair stubbornly remained as dark as night and as wild as Lyanna’s on their way north, and there he discovered the boy looked more his son than his very own. 

_Let them learn to love each other as true siblings,_ he prayed beneath the heart tree in the Godswood. 

He waited for the madness of Aerys to manifest, for a distinct kind of cruelty to make itself clear, but he found he needed none of his appeals to the gods, as Jon Snow grew up kind and gentle and quiet. 

As the years passed, he found himself waiting and wondering less and less. 

Jon made no mention of riding dragons, yet he could sit a horse as well as Lyanna did. Ned watched him grow close with Arya, his cousin so much like his own mother. Jon could scarcely keep his feet beneath him in time to the music played at their feasts, much less sing or play a harp as his father had. When they found the litter of direwolf pups out in the woods one day, Jon took to his as much as any of his trueborn children.

And then, when Jon left with Sansa the night before she was to be betrothed to Harrold Hardyng, Ned couldn’t find it in his heart to summon anger, despite the things Lord Baelish accused him of, laying the blame at his feet for the ruin of his perfectly arranged match. He could only laugh, because there it was, the truth plain, the slightest sign of the dragon, at long last.


	5. Day 5: Bastard

_Bastard,_ they had always called him here, at the Wall. And what would they name him now, now that his wounds had healed, now that breath once more filled his lungs, now that his heart which should have turned to stone beat again?

This condition somehow seemed yet worse. The world was too bright, too loud. His skin burned, a fire seeming to ignite him from the inside out. His blood rushed through his body, spreading the flames beneath the surface. Was this what happened when dead men rise? 

He considered asking the red witch, Melisandre, who still lingered here, but he remained resolute to steer clear of her. The woman had seduced him before; had this been her attempt to do so again, her magic gone awry just as so many of her visions, leaving him instead with this _perversion_ for the red-haired girl he once called sister? Was he ever cursed, first a bastard and now this?

He closed his eyes and pictured Sansa’s, hers a beautiful blue that vanquished the ones that had haunted his dreams. He heard the way his name fell from her lips: “ _Jon,_ ” lovely like a song, comforting like the whisper of the wind through the leaves of a heart tree. He recalled the way she felt in his arms, soft and pliant and radiant as ever, while his that wrapped around her were sullen and stiff until that melted away the longer he held her there, the ice in his veins thawing until it became this unbearable heat. 

He had gone from not a care left to this, whatever _this_ was, a cruel trick of the gods, to make him lust for his sister, in exchange for cheating death? 

And yet in death he had seen no gods, faced no consequence for his sins. There had only the world through the eyes of his wolf, and the beast within him stirred now, warring with his desire. Could anything be more wrong than his feeling for Sansa? Could anything be more wrong than a dead man brought back to the living?

_Kill the boy,_ Aemon Targaryen had told him. _Let the man be born._ This was not the man his father intended him to be though, not the man Sansa needed. 

He had experienced want before, with Ygritte, the inklings of desire, the lures of lust, but never this kind of insatiety. 

_Not insatiety,_ he thought as he dressed to go see her, his clothes like a trap, too hot, too cloying. _Insanity._


	6. Day 6: Tears and Furs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry--two angsty drabbles in a row!

Jon could not recall the last time he woke to a wolf dream. They had waned ever since he’d returned to Winterfell and traded his blacks for a crown, his brothers for his remaining sister. 

He found the hunts of his wolf freeing, more than the life of a man of the Night’s Watch or a king. The world seemed simpler there, where thought and worry held no purpose, and he gave himself over to instinct. There were no quibbles to settle or people to please, only the feel of his paws on the frozen ground, the mingling of scents in the air, the wolfswood come alive in vivid detail despite there being no more to guide his eyes other than the light of the moon. 

But this time was wrong, so wrong. The tang of blood that flooded his senses tasted strange… _human_. 

Jon sprang from his bed. He needn’t hear a sound, nor see anything amiss to know where he headed. He could feel the anger coursing through the veins of his wolf, the stench of a fresh kill filling his nostrils. 

He opened the chambers to find the blood of a mockingbird staining the mouth of Ghost, puddling in the bed, painting the floor. Sansa trembled beside his wolf, her fingers twisted in his fur, tears streaking down her pale face. 

Jon knelt to feel for Lord Baelish’s wrist, his throat too torn to search there for a pulse, even though he already knew what he would find. If he thought back to when he had been asleep, he could feel the way the sinews had easily shredded beneath his sharp teeth… 

“I—I’m sorry,” she gasped. “He—he…” 

“No, there is nothing to be sorry for,” he said, his voice scarcely more than a growl. “He did nothing to warrant your sympathy.” 

He took Sansa in his arms, her warmth soothing the fury he held inside, the slowing of her sobs as she caught her breath relieving the compression of his muscles, her familiar lemon scent eroding that of death as he buried his face in her hair. 

The wolf receded, and he was left only a man.


	7. Day 7: Free Choice (Family)

Sansa never thought she would be back here at the Wall.

She thought of the last battle they had waged, against the Boltons for Winterfell. She hadn’t expected the next to come so soon, nor had she expected a foe who could be possibly more inhuman. 

The Dragon Queen would be arriving any day now with her three children, but they didn’t have time to wait, not when the Night’s King and his army of the risen dead had been spotted less than a hundred leagues from Castle Black. It was dangerous here, in every sense of the word. 

Jon had been reluctant to bring her at all. 

The danger to her person had been one thing; the other risk they ran quite another. The nature of their relationship had been easier to hide in Winterfell, where both Lord and Lady could roam where they pleased. There no one knew what transgressed in their chambers, nor saw what kind of tea Sansa drank come morning. It had been far more difficult here, with the attention of all the men, both free folk and Night’s Watch, upon them. 

She couldn’t bring herself to care what anyone thought this night, though. Too nervous to sleep, she pictured Jon’s soft grey eyes turning bright blue, or the muscles beneath his skin turning thin as parchment, his bones showing through beneath his scars, his touch gone cold. 

For all the efforts he had put into maintaining their distance, he did not hesitate in allowing her to enter his chambers. Perhaps he, too, recognized there were worse things than creating fodder for campfire gossip. 

“Promise me, Sansa,” he whispered, their kisses hot and desperate, their shed clothing abandoned piece by piece to the rushes of the floor. “Promise me you won’t stay here. Go back to Winterfell. If we are lost, if the Wall falls… go south, as far south as you can. Or east, one of the free cities in Essos.” 

That was not what she wanted, she should have told him. She didn’t know if what she wished were possible, not at the height of winter, not with a single chance, not after Ramsay, she should have said. But if this were her last opportunity, if this was all she had to sustain her through, to carry on her dream of spring… 

“We’re the last two Starks, Jon,” she said. “I don’t want to be the only one.” 

She could have put her hand to his stomach and let it slide downward, but instead she put his hand on her belly, to make him understand. 

His handsome face—solemn like her father’s, stormy like Arya’s, strong like Robb’s—grimaces. “Sansa…” 

She knew the promises he had made himself, yet she knew if she would agree to one of his making, then he would readily break the other. 

 

The morning after Jon rode over the horizon, Bran appeared at the gates, begging to be taken to the heart tree in Winterfell’s godswood. 

A week later, a plain-faced girl arrived to seek shelter from the cold, and when Sansa blinked, she turned to Arya. 

And when a fortnight later, her moonblood did not arrive, Sansa realized she was not intended to be the last Stark, nor even the second, third, or fourth after all.


End file.
